As much as I hate to ******* admit it, you look better than how I left you two years ago.

Do you think I do too? Probably not.

It’s weird how we can pick everything back up instantly– the stupid jokes, the long stares, the competition, the drunken fights and guilt trips.

You know it’s not a night until I end it screaming at you and slamming the door, leaving you. Again.

Standing next to you is like stepping into a time machine with hind-sight, and still wanting to make the same mistakes all over again. Except not really. (But really.)

You’re a **** head. But you’re my **** head. And I think it’s time for you to come home. Come home to where you belong.

In a cold car watching our breath rise up, talking about how a neuron in the brain is the same shape as an entire universe, then kissing me with the taste of another ******* your lips. You always picked sweet ones.

I promise not to get mad anymore. I learned how to pick up strangers’ scents too.

Now we don’t have to be alone when we’re together. We can both slowly **** ourselves, stuck together, in your trap house.